Nature is holding its breath. Not a leaf twitches.
Trees crowd the hill leading up from the creek bed and stare at the slate sky. Frozen in place, they wait - hope - for the promised storm, banners lifted high... some fresh and green, others rusting, faded by the summer sun and heat.
Their quiet pleading works. First, a soft rumbling, then a flash of light. Rain begins to fall, soft, a whisper on the roof.
The trees stand as still as those in an autumn painting, perhaps afraid they'll scare it away, this gentle storm tiptoeing into the Hollow.
Slate turns to steel. More confident now, the storm moves with bold steps; the whisper becomes a roar, pouring blessings. Nothing flashy, no lightshows, no angry thunder, just soothing strength.
Banners begin to wave, trees dance in gratitude.
I step outside, breathe in deep the cool freshness, and remember God's promises.
By your grace, O God.